The God of Balance

Summer 2004. We learned Rush was playing Red Rocks on my birthday. Gotta see that.

 

Drove from Texas to Colorado the day before the gig on the first extended road/camping trip of our ongoing 24 year dude/lady union. My 10th Rush gig since Permanent Waves 1980.

 

We tent camped in the Indian Peaks Wilderness the night before, my first night at high altitude. We smoked cigs back then, plus tons of the devil's (or Brutus') lettuce, so I was winded at times.

 

Gig day we drove the epic Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain NP, got a room at a hot springs spa thingee in Idaho Springs, then hauled ass to Red Rocks under a tight, worrisome time squeeze. Hopefully I didn't overload the day, for, at that point, I'd attended over 300 gigs starting with Zeppelin, April Fool's Day 1977 at age 9 and had only been late to one (STP, 2000, St. Paul MN, due to a map reading error). 

 

Traffic getting into the venue was bad. Our parking was far away with an uphill slog. We were almost out of time, so we had to hump it hard. Chest burning. Knee, partially blown off due to a hunting accident when I was 12, buckling. Long line to get in. We were not going to make it.

 

Fortunately The Guys were in the habit of delaying lights out when too many fans were still outside the gate. Right when we got in and sprinted to within view of the stage, they cut the lights and the Three Stooges Theme played. Hell yeah!

 

The set and experience were magnificent. But, the latter part of the main set, from 2112 to Working Man, was ludicrous. By-Tor was off the chain. Xanadu was a candidate for the best thing I've ever seen - the pleasure dome > Kahn part is burned in my mind forever, I was in a state of ecstasy. The surprise polka intro > morph into Strangiato was epic. The MVP of the show was one Neil Ellwood Peart.

 

We would see Rush there twice more, plus STP, TOOL twice (again on my birthday - caught Danny's end of show tom head frisbee heave from the front row), Sessanta, Opeth/Gojira/Heavy Devy at that unparalleled venue, but nothing could match the emotion and majesty of my first Red Rocks gig with the rampaging Guys At Work.

 

Rush Concert Setlist at Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Morrison on June 29, 2004 | setlist.fm

2 hours ago, Timbale said:

SNIP

 

I am grateful that example of pure, un-compromised artistry came my way at an impressionable age. And these many years after my intense fandom has passed...I am deeply sad that he has now passed, too.

 

“We’re only immortal for a limited time”

 

RIP Neil Peart

 

Excellent, deftly-crafted post. Thank you for sharing. Appreciating The Guys at Work has served you superbly. Very, very best wishes for a tolerable outcome with your current challenges.

 

I just posted my account of that dark day. Writing it was hard, yet cathartic.

 

Cheers, brother.

It was January 10, 2020, my late Mother's birthday. She died hours after my birthday ended in R40 (known to many as 2015) following a harrowing 30+ year illness and complicated relationship with me in which many loose ends were left dangling, so it had become a difficult, contemplative date.

 

I was with a once-close friend of mine, a brilliant craftsman I call Guitar Jim. He, a genius at putting broken and neglected guitars back together, was my luthier. Our relationship had become strained by sociopolitical differences - I lean honorable and progressive while Jim was a Medicaid and EBT fraudster who, at the same time, would growl “f**k socialism” every chance he got as he collected welfare while earning good money under the table. Fox Angertainment blared from his TV for 12+ hours a day and he was transmutating from a good dude to a regressing dick with ears.

 

We regularly made trips to the hydroponics store followed by another try in an ongoing quest to find the best burger in town. That day's agenda pointed at the Maple Leaf Diner, not far from Jim's home and the only Canadian restaurant I've ever seen in the USA. Known for audacious, jaw-splitting burgers featured on The Travel Channel, I was quite excited about eating there, for, aside from the burgers, they had Nanaimo bars and an opportunity to fill an old hole in my heart.

 

See, years before, we were on a Calgary + Vancouver jaunt to see Iron Maiden. On Gabriola Island, a superb artist colony island just off the Nanaimo, Vancouver Island BC coast, I lovingly placed my first Nanaimo bars, bought in lovely Uclulet the day before, in the communal fridge of the bed and breakfast where we'd lodged. The next morning, we departed and I forgot them. f**k!!! Eight years later, I still had never tasted that iconic layered goodness so loved by many. On January 10, 2020, that personal tragedy would at long last be put to rest. And, I was dressed for the occasion - Rush shirt and Canada cap.

 

Maple Leaf Diner

 

The Black and Decker warranty repair facility was near the hydroponics shop, so Jim added a “quick swing” by there to deal with a drill issue was added to the itinerary. That turned into me sitting in his truck for almost an hour as he argued with the staff before finally emerging triumphantly with a new replacement drill. I quipped that I'd recently gotten a new drill, but took it back because it was boring. Jim didn't get the joke. Funny - my Dad, a man of much greater perspicacity, found it a hoot.

 

As a bonus, he'd parked next door in the FedEx store loading space, so I got a flurry of justified dirty looks from a parade of shippers as it rained on me through the open window. Next time, leave the keys, dickhead.

 

After that delay, Jim, worried about incoming weather harming his unremarkable Ford F-150, suggested we blow off the Canucks and instead hit a different, nearby burger joint that had left me flat in the past and seemed to be in recent decline after a long, popular run. I, buying lunch as usual, refused; he protested and pouted; I gave in. Might Pappy have Nanaimo bars?

 

Uh. Prolly. Mother. f***ing. Not.

 

Pappy's Uninspiring Sky Genie Ground Cow Meat Sammiches

 

Immediately upon entering I scowled at the curiously harsh Old Testament Bible verses written on the chalkboard below the menu. I much disfavor tent revivals with my burger. Sigh.

 

The old bitch behind the counter at Pappy's Subpar Jebus Burger was hideous and surly, the food was lackluster and, ironically, Jim ended up sending his back due to a complaint about the bun. Such things happened often with him. How disappointing that the loaded Canada-style epic beast of a burger with the marinated tomatoes and onion rings as toppings would not come to pass. And, that Nanaimo bars thing. Sigh.

 

Turned out the weather he was worried about was just a normal shower. Canada experience scrapped for nothing. We returned to Jim's. After burning a phatty, I was checking out some of his vast collection of guitars when it happened.

 

My phone made that funny noise. I made my typical funny noise in response to that funny noise - “*Sigh* NOW what?” and checked my messages. From my Girly:

 

Neil Peart died today :(

 

 

 

I was utterly floored. In profound and increasing distress, I clumsily stammered the bad news of this most dreadful calamity that had just blasted into reality from clean outta nowhere. A bit of dizziness set in as the words of Ghost Rider and a mad medley of Rush songs and drum fills careened through my noggin in one of those nuclear-blast-between-the-ears movie-type moments of hyper-realization. Learned he actually had been departed since the 7th. Dang! I was going about my business for days in a The Professorless world.

 

Poor Carrie. OMG....Planet Olivia! My fellow Rush fans. A most-richly- and hard-earned retirement stolen after all that hard work, heartbreak and grueling path to rebirth. How could I feel that much searing sympathy for strangers? How is this not the worst thing that ever happened?

 

This was the most gutting sudden, unexpected death in my world since my first real girlfriend was killed in a boating accident way the f**k back in 1983, before I'd ever even driven a car. It was a battle to keep from busting out sobbing.

 

Jim, though, was distinctly unmoved, deadpanning a stunning “You'll get over it” and changing the subject to his free replacement drill as I sat there trembling.

 

Holy f***ing shit, what a tool. To be clear, I'm talking about Jim, not the drill. That utterance would end up costing him a lot of business and tens of thousands of dollars.

 

I was now doubly stunned. Not even 20 seconds into that tragedy a close friend actually managed to make it worse! That's not at all what friends are for. He then followed up with, “Who's Neil Purp?” Apparently, he behaved similarly with his old lady, a former Beatles Fan Club president, when John Lennon perished.

 

*FACEPALM* Just.....FACEPALM.

 

Enough of that wantwit - I went home and mourned with my Girly, who, unlike most, has true respect for the giants of prog and metal. The next day at the grocery store, a stocker and I came face to face in the cereal aisle, both clad in Rush shirts. We wordlessly embraced and wept next to the Lucky Charms. T'was not a magically delicious time, for damn sure.

 

EPILOGUE

Pappy's and the Black and Decker facility are both gone. Maple Leaf Diner remains, as do I and my girlfriend. Jim's stomach, potential landing place for a kick ass Canada burger, is gone, turned to ash in a medical waste incinerator after a nasty bout with cancer. I bet it was the Pappy's burger that done did it. I assume he still has the drill. A dear friend of mine actually had a party to celebrate Jim's cancer due to his dissing of Bubba's passing, then had a wake a year later to bemoan his remission.

 

Mom remains dead, as does Dad, who was killed on his 88^th birthday almost exactly a year before NEP left us. A week of mourning comes to pass every January 7-13 for him and Bubba. Martin Barre is alive and well. I assume Nanaimo remains wonderful. My Girly and I remain together, ready to celebrate our 24^th anniversary next month when we travel to Houston to see Portnoy's triumphant return to Dream Theater.

 

Amid a cluster of surprises, in 2022 I nearly became paralyzed and had to have the back of my entire cervical spine cut off and decompressed due to severe spinal stenosis, plus a 3 level fusion from the front. As a result, I missed Martin Barre's Aqualung 50^th anniversary tour here.

 

 

So, when I somewhat recovered, we drove from Texas to Vancouver Island to see it, front row, in....wait for it...Nanaimo, home of the aforementioned confection! Upon checking into our awesome AirBnB oceanside crib, I was tickled to find our decidedly lovely hosts had put a container of Nanaimo bars in the fridge for us. YOWZA!

 

Finally, after over a decade, I got royally blazed and ate the damn things. They rocked, as did Mr. Barre, who plays a mean flute atop his guitar mastery.

 

On the way home, we stopped at the Alvord Desert in Oregon and, while absolutely tripping balls, listened to the new Porcupine Tree album for the first time, then had a Rush marathon and a toast to Neil Ellwood Peart (and Mom & Dad) under the insane starry sky. It was awe-inspiring, exquisite, and gut-punchingly sad, all at once. Awe and wonder are my favorite sensations. Best The Camera Eye and Vital Signs EVER. My shirt was soaked in tears afterward.

 

 

I don't wanna to live in a world without Neil Peart and Edward Van Halen. Hell, I guess I'm stuck with it, though.

 

Oh yeah - and, f**k Pappy and the horse upon which he rode into this (or any) sombitch.

 

RIP, Bubba. You were much, much, much more than a guy who hits things with sticks and left some huge footprints in honkin' fuckload of sand.

 

Suddenly, you were gone

From all the lives you left your mark upon

--Rush, Afterimage 1984

Thanks, Earl, glad you liked it.

 

As for the Ozzy/Gary Moore thing, I was just talking about that the other day, recalling a blurb in a magazine like Hit Parader back then that read, I believe, "John Sykes says Gary Moore is the greatest guitarist who ever lived. Ozzy says he's an ugly, nasty kunt."

 

While I suppose both can be true, that seems to be quite the difference in perspective. When Moore died, Ozzy was nothing but respectful and complimentary. Life is often a trip.

BMW drivers in any state are the worst!

 

They're just assholes.

 

 

 

 

Would that include the, uh, er, um......BMW motorcyclists?

Yep, I have, and it was totally unexpected.

 

My old lady and I are pass baggers. No, it has nothing to do with kidney stones - we love to visit mountain pass roads, both normal and 4x4, and smoke a fat joint there while reverently listening to an elite song (Natural Science, My God, Dogs, Pareidolla, Spiral Architect, Octavarium, 7empest, L'Enfant Sauvage, Are You Receiving Me?, The Kentucky Meat Shower, Heart of the Sunrise, etc.). Depending on the status of that particular state or province, other cool things may occur. A bit more on that below. Once, in a big hurry, we had to resort to a roach and Scuttle Buttin'. Many things are simply better at a mountain pass, I always say.

 

So, one lovely day earlier this century we were on Colorado 114, a great road we've named the Blaze Bayley Memorial Highway (yeah, I know...Blaze ain't dead, but that's what we bloody call it) that connects US 50 E of Gunnison with Saguache and the top of the exquisite San Luis Valley, the largest alpine valley on Earth. It's kick-ass country, to put it mildly. CO 114 crests the Continental Divide at North Cochetopa pass, and that's where my unexpected brush with uber-greatness occurred.

 

Driving a tiny RV, we pulled over at the pass and got royally baked on weapons-grade nugg, in this case Cinderella 99. She grabbed the camera and hobbled, injured from a car wreck, up the trail from the parking area in search of anything interesting to shoot. It turned out that the parking area was, at the moment, the local epicenter of interesting.

 

I looked to my left and noticed a lone fellow removing his motorcycle helmet and revealing an amusingly red, road-battered, happy face as he pulled a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket.

 

Strolling that way to say hey and check out the big, green pass sign, the leather-clad chap nodded an earnest greeting-with-smile and I did same. I immediately noticed the BMW logo on his bike, for my longtime best friend is a BMW fanatic (the 4-wheel variety - on a bike I suspect he'd be loudly and bloodily off to the Land of Wind and Ghosts within seconds).

 

The guy seemed familiar to me as I mentioned that the previous time I'd driven that pass, a truly harrowing experience, conditions were nowhere near as hospitable as we enjoyed that day. He replied, "Oh, really? Well, glad ya made it through." The earnest, pleasant smile remained.

 

BAM! It was like a mule kicked me in the nose, then shoved a drumstick up each nostril. Yeah, I recognized the face and another minute would have brought realization, but the voice is what did it.

 

I was standing next to Neil Peart, stoned off my ass, at a scenic, otherwise-deserted mountain pass. It's true, and it rhymes.

 

He clearly noticed that I'd recognized him and his aura, for lack of a better term, went from placid to guarded. It was quite interesting, really. I, generally unflappable and effective, was rendered utterly, uh, flapped and infantile. What to do? Even though it was far from my first brush with greatness in a rock and roll rampage dating to the late '70's, I felt like I was going to pass out. How should I handle handle such a diamond-studded, cold fusion-lookin' moment? T'was truly the mess and the magic. I was the mess, in case you were wondering.

 

First I turned to my right 90 degrees, toward the pass sign, and took a sidestep away, giving him more personal space. What to say? "The Continental Divide....ya gotta love that, man!" "Indeed," he elegantly and succinctly replied.

 

I looked over my shoulder for my girlfriend, hoping she could get in on the action. He followed my gaze, seemingly concerned that some more long non-awaited non-friends were about to burst from the treeline. Our RV was small, but one could stuff a bunch of redneck hippie stoner rock and roll degenerates like us in there. The seconds rolled by and a pregnant pause hung over us. Neil began to prepare to saddle up and I, most fortunately, figured out what in the hell to say.

 

Amazingly calmly and staring at the sign, not at him, I announced, "It is my carefully reasoned opinion that the lyrics to Natural Science rank as one of mankind's greatest artistic achievements. It's the Sistene Chapel in words on an album sleeve. The Krakatoa of allegory. 'Living in their pools they soon forget about the sea.' " I avoided second-person pronouns, keeping it indirect.

 

He seemed a bit surprised and suddenly more relaxed. With a wry, smoky grin he replied, "I'm sure the author appreciates that."

 

I thought of something else - "BUT, next to the sheer glory of side one of Hemispheres, it almost sucks, if that's even possible. Impressive." I did my best imitation of the nekkid, hedonistic feller standing on the brain, one leg cocked out and its same-side arm extended to him. "OH, WAIT! I goss-ta entirely disrobe!" I reached for the front of my jeans.

 

He laughed heartily in a little cloud of mountain breath. I can still see the shape of the cloud. It's funny how acute senses can sometimes be.

 

He snuffed his cigarette, conscientiously, of course, in a little container he carried, just as I always have (litterbugs suck) and grabbed his helmet. I made note of his responsible smoking and quipped "I bet that ain't how Axl Rose woulda done it." More laughter.

 

Frantically scanning my memory banks for one last thing to say, I gently pointed at him and said "Two final things." He stopped his preparations, paying attention like a gentleman. "One, you've made a real difference. Well done, sir! Two, I totally loved you on Gilligan's Island."

 

He laughed even harder. YOWZA! I scored! Laughter, my secret weapon, saves the day yet again. The odds of me being a dumbass there were surely about equal, at best, to being a boss. Good thing the stars were aligned and the gods weren't malign.

 

"Have a safe, wonderful trip," I blurted, voice still trembling a bit. "Same to you and whoever you have stashed in the forest," he replied.

 

I turned and walked away, wondering if I should turn and look back or just play it cool. There was no hope for the latter - next thing I knew I was close to the ground, knees bent in a full squat and arms over my head in a pose remarkably like that of the great Basil Fawlty after suffering vast, humiliating despair.

https://thiswastv.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/basil_hopping_mad.png

 

I was plain freakin' out.

 

After that sad-yet-valid spectacle, I somehow managed to get my cervical spine vertical again and looked at Neil. He was taking my picture with a flip phone, it seemed. Well, either that or he was looking at something on the display - my tenuous hold on consciousness made discerning which roundly impossible.

 

A minute later he was gone. Just after that another rider, similarly clad and equipped, whizzed by without stopping. I've no clue if they were associated. A few minutes later, my better half emerged from the woods to find me in a tizzy.

 

The notion that he photographed me sure added some zazz to reading those 3 relevant books - each time I turned the page I wondered if a photo of me doing the Basil Fawlty squat would explode onto my retinas. That occurred not. Bummer. I've still only made it a short way into the so-far-fantastic Traveling Music, so I guess there's still hope of a mention, somehow, but I ain't holdin' my breath. I guess the odds are better than they were in that scary Africa bicycle book, tho.

 

I've met many devil music dignitaries, even partying with a few. This oh-so brief crossing of paths, however, ranks at the top, no question. Neil Peart is arguably the most important individual in rock history, for he single-handedly changed things to an extent very close to singularly exclusive. EVH would be in that class as a guitarist, but he lacks the multifaceted might of The Professor, who just as an author was a monster.

 

The tiny taste of his personality was fascinating. He was so content in the crisp alpine air before stiffening up when he got "made," yet he still eased into a plenty affable state when the interaction moved in a cool direction. It couldn't have lasted more than 100 seconds, yet was staggeringly rich in nuance and cool vibe, kind of like....wow....Neil's drumming. And lyrics. And writing. Go figure, eh?

 

On subsequent trips to Colorado and anywhere else that potentially crossed paths with Neil's shunpiking, I was a few times able to position us in places between shows that at least increased the odds of a repeat near-coronary. I even wore the same clothes and hat and I've no doubt that scalpel-sharp guy would have recognized me, especially after I quickly stripped and did the Hemispheres thing for him proper-like.

 

Due to low odds of success and logistical concerns, I stopped short of bringing a big brain on which to stand.

 

Alas, that never happened, but one guy who looked a lot like Neil and rode a similar bike sure was rattled when he happened to pull into our scenic stakeout spot only to have my large frame dashing at him, mouth agape, eyes immense, arms outstretched, and skin pale as toilet paper from shock. "Sorry, dude.....I thought you wuz someone else."

 

We're on a quest to have me experience 10 cool things guys like me fancy in each of the 50 USA states and 13 Canadian provinces and territories. Of 630 boxes to check we've managed just under 300 in what may be the coolest mission in history. It started with 1 thing and snowballed to 10. I suggested adding an 11th thing - accidently dumbstumble into meeting Neil Peart - but we decided that a tad farfetched and just stuck with the already-demanding 10.

 

Nunavut is gonna be interesting.

 

R.I.P. Neil. Thanks.

Yep, toymaker, low and wide. I like mine on the rocks, but I'm kind of a hick, so there's that.

 

I've tried 3 varieties since my girlfriend sagely surprised me with a bottle for my birthday last year. 12 yr - $65, 12 yr double cask - $62, fine oak 18 Yr triple cask - $350.

 

I've always been a bourbon guy and was never impressed with my parents' Cutty Sark Scotch, even though I raided it often for recreational purposes as a teen. The Macallan, though, is a whole different creature - so smooth and complex. The great flavor and body plus my devouring of The Professor's bibliography made me a fan.

 

The best of the three? I preferred the lowly $62 12y double hands down. That's great news, 'cuz I ain't never payin' three digits for a 750ml (or, really 1.5L either - screw that!) bottle of hooch again.

Bad drivers are everywhere. A good driver drunk (within reason) is much safer than a bad driver sober. I've seen outrageously bad driving everywhere from Istanbul to Caracas to Vancouver to Manhattan, but, by far, the worst I've seen have been in Detroit, Baltimore, Memphis, New Orleans, and Shreveport. For some reason, the residents in those cities have remarkable difficulty knowing the rules, avoiding bad habits, extending courtesy to those from whom they need nothing at the moment, and working well within a dynamic system. Merely sitting and watching the fiascos at a 4-way stop can be quite entertaining in those cities.

 

One other aspect I've noted that seems unrelated to the above - in terms of types of cars to watch out for, I've noticed a disproportionate amount of douchebaggery from drivers of modern muscle cars - Camaros, Challengers, etc. Among many other things, they seem especially prone to pointless tailgating and stopping at lights with 5 car lengths in front of them, apparently so that they can whip out their stupid phones and get on Instagram or whatever a precious few seconds sooner. Of course, during times of heavy traffic, that creates a backlog and ripple effect that can last hours. It's amazing how many innocent people one buffoon can obliviously inconvenience.

 

Now, when the two above paragraphs come together, which, thankfully, does not seem all that common, things really get screwed and activating Civil Defense or the Emergency Broadcast System becomes a consideration.

Cities full of hatred

Fear and lies

Withered hearts

And cruel, tormented eyes

 

Scheming demons

Dressed in kingly guise

Beating down the multitude

And scoffing at the wise

 

That second half REALLY hits home.